Dewey
by Coach Zed
Summary: America/fem!Canada AU. A school librarian and the school's star quarterback meet in the classics section to create their own literary conventions. Smut.


_AN: AU. America/fem!Canada. This is a typical high school AU, I guess—football player and school librarian. Not much plot. Just wanted to write some heterosexual smut—well, actually, this isn't very smutty._

He peels her open with the same calloused fingers which scored the winning touchdown the night before, in a night of drunken adolescent reverie and cult hive mind team spirit. He opens her and thumbs her pages and she worries that he'll bend her spine and leave her perpetually released to this page forever more.

Her pages quiver and he draws his fingernails down the edge of her cover, stripping her of her dust jacket until she's bare of all artwork and ornate lettering and laminate. He breathes in that fresh, new book scent and she rubs her prose flush against his unread body.

He mewls and bubbles with delight as he lets her wrap the intricacies of her literature around his body. His dangling participle presses between the parentheses of her legs as she presses an antecedent near, tempting.

His eyes darken and she can feel him dog-ear this moment, bend down the pages and leaving permanent creases in their memories for easy access on those dark, lonely nights when they wish he was a few years older, or she was a few years younger, and they could combine subjects and predicates without fear of the grammarian red ink of society modifying and editing them apart.

He kisses down her stomach and plucks a series of nouns within her. "Arousal". "Affection". "Adoration". An alliteration of abstract amalgamations addressing her affinity for Alfred.

"Maddie," He pants between a wave of onomatopoeia as he slides his tongue in the most secret of hidden symbolisms. Her legs spread and she clutches the swaying shelf of books behind her. Shakespeare and Keats, Shelley and Byron, all looking on with varying degrees of lust and disgust. Although she knows there's no room for disgust in Byron's eyes.

She first knew the throes of pleasure while satisfying herself to his poems. She almost feels like she's cheating now, though whether on the Romantics or Alfred she isn't entirely sure. Surreptitiously, her sweaty digits flip his book around, hiding the curly silver of his name from her view.

Alfred bends and folds and creases her all the more, until she's almost afraid her pages will surely snap and flutter out in a pile at their feet, released from her tensed spine. He licks and sucks and curls his tongue deep into her, and she feels herself dripping adjectives down his throat. Wet. Hot. Erotic.

Oh, she hopes erotic is one of them. She's afraid to look down, eyes closed behind fogged glasses. She wants him to like her. Wants him to find her worthy of snuggling close to on a dark rainy night, the fireplace crackling as he reads between each and every one of her lines.

She squeals the proper noun of his name, listens to it echo through the abandoned courtyard of books. His hands leave permanent fingerprints over her cover, the cover which was normally kept clean with the dust jacket he'd so effortlessly stripped away, but she can't bring herself to care.

She tastes herself on his lips, on his tongue, reverberating in his short, choppy sentence structure. She flows into him with elongated vowels and silent "e"s.

He hefts her into her arms, the bookshelf tipping precariously on one corner. Her legs scramble for purchase around his waist as he completes her dependent clauses.

She might have said, "It's time to split some infinitives," but to improperly say such a thing was beyond her means. Not out of shame, but her lack of breath and cognition, her inability for articulation. Instead, she grinds against him, trying to get him to scan her barcode, let him register her Dewey decimal system.

But split he does, and she curses a stream of vowel sounds and sentence fragments. _The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe_ collapses onto the ground in a stream of dust and antiquated angst.

Somewhere outside of the 800s, outside of the library itself, the coach bellows and screeches for the star quarterback. Nobody would think to check the library, and least of all the classics section. And least of all inside the mousy school librarian. Thrusting until her simpering soprano voice sings dulcet moans of supreme pleasure that surely must have belonged to a much more vocal woman. They reach their respective orgasms in a stuttering, desperate battle of clauses and purple prose.

She remains fixed open as the afterglow sets in, the clock tick-tick-ticking and foreshadowing the impending parting. He remains inside her, glued to the story they'd just created. Her chest heaves with a Harlequin lewdness as he tenderly covers her in his letterman's jacket. It smells of Slim Jims, Gatorade, and his own musky body scent, so unlike the maple and old book aroma her own body clings to.

"I don't want to leave," Alfred says, in a hush afforded to libraries and post-coital affairs alike. He nuzzles her breast and she braids her fingers through his choppy hair.

But that was the great thing about instilling a love of reading in youth. A good book lasts forever. And Maddie would be waiting on her shelf, perpetually creased from his attentions, for him to lose himself within her again.


End file.
